


Where Heaven and Hell Collide

by ShyTortise



Series: The Same Coin [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale isn't an idiot, Gen, Heaven isn't Nice, M/M, My own feelings on religion kind of soak through, Probably not even finished I'm just tired of thinking about it, because I believe there is always love, kind of a get together fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 01:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyTortise/pseuds/ShyTortise
Summary: Aziraphale isn't completely oblivious, but he IS an Angel, which means there are expectations. But those seem less and less important as the end of the world arrives and departs without ever really touching down.





	Where Heaven and Hell Collide

**Author's Note:**

> Pulled entirely from the Amazon Prime series because I haven't read the book in years. There's no real plot because I live for softness. There is kissing though. I did write kissing.  
EDIT: I also fixed the formatting holy hell.

Aziraphale knows.

He knows what he sounds like, how cruel and unthinking. But he also knows that it is for Crowley’s sake. And that makes it bearable.

The guilt, the gut wrenching self loathing every time he rubs their differences in Crowley’s face.

Hell is vicious yes, vindictive and mercurial. But Heaven is oppressive, constant, ever watchful. So he makes it clear that any of his “mistakes” are failings of his own, because Crowley is a Demon, it is his nature to tempt or nudge. Aziraphale is an Angel and should be perfect. So when he isn’t, it is _his_ fault, not Crowley’s.

He makes sure they know that. He would rather be a terrible Angel than a false friend.

*

“My lot don’t send rude notes.” He is so relieved to hear that the lanky demon thinks of paperwork when he hears ‘strongly worded reprimand’. He couldn’t bear the look...of pity or disgust, he’s not sure which would be worse, if Crowley could see the words branded into his flesh.

‘**Frivolous**’, ‘**Selfish**’, ‘**Glutton**’, ‘**Thoughtless**’. Though he knows he deserves that last one.

*

“I’m not sure I could explain, especially not to you.” Because if he does he would have to tell Crowley that it’s like their evenings in his shop, when they’re both drunk and laughing.

He doesn’t realize, until just that bit too late, what it sounded like he meant, what Crowley thought he meant.

*

“Together?” He wants to, so badly he aches with the urge to just...take Crowley’s hand and imagine leaving. He knows they won’t, no matter how much the old serpent blusters, Aziraphale knows he cares too much.

About humans and their wonderful, terrible ideas. About his Bently and children, even if he’d never admit that last one. About everything.

He’s always cared, far more than any demon should. And that helps when Aziraphale tells his second biggest lie.

“There is no our side! Not anymore!” He wants to cry, to imagine that Crowley knows he’s lying. But as he watches that familiar body walk away he feels that hope disintegrate.

He keeps it close anyway, pressing the ashes to his heart.

The only truly unforgivable sin is despair, and he knows if he can read fast enough, make enough notes then Crowley...beautiful _brilliant_ Crowley will be able to think of something.

But he has to be fast, he has to be careful. It is Gabriel and Michael he’s working against, the two who invented CC-TV claiming that it was so the people being watched could feel safe.

But Aziraphale knows, has always known, that it is to keep those watched on their best behavior.

*

‘**Greed**’ burns into his skin as he prays fervently. “Please, I wish to speak to a higher authority.”

‘**Insubordinate**’ crawls up his spine in searing loops and curves.

Surely God would not want this, God who commanded the angels to love humans as they loved the LORD.

A voice in his mind, that sounds suspiciously like Crowley, hisses that a truly loving God wouldn’t have drowned the world in a fit of pique, or damned half their children for the audacity of asking questions, of loving their parent more than the new squalling ugly sibling.

‘**Wrath**’ blazes a scorching trail along his chest as Metatron stonewalls him, but all pain is forgotten as he finds himself backed into the holy light by Shadwell, of all people, his corporation and it’s reprimands dissolved in the divine energy.

*

“After all...demons can do it…” And for the Earth, for all the little joys and miracles the humans create on their own, he will disobey Heaven; but it is only for his Most Beloved Demon, his ‘boyfriend in the dark glasses’ that he will risk Falling.

*

Madam Tracy is not...a comfortable fit, but her soul is generous and more importantly, the same shape as his own. Loving, and determined.

Her bravery is awe inspiring, constantly baring her heart to Shadwell, her willingness to immediately believe Aziraphale and spring into action, all part of her beautiful humanity.

He is almost sorry to be split from her when the young Antichrist frowns at him and says they should return to being two people, and yet it feels so much more right to be in his old corporation made new.

There are no sins in Enochian across his skin, he is almost certain the mortal vessel is decades younger than it was, but it still feels like a worn familiar jumper.

Now he has the proper form to comfort Crowely, to allow him his moment for the death of his beloved vehicle.

If only there were time.

The look on Gabriel’s face promises that his next visit will not be as uneventful as their jog in the park, but Aziraphale can’t find it in himself to care too much.

He’s just so relieved. The world isn’t ending, Adam is still so wonderfully human; and Crowely...dear, precious, brilliant Crowley is next to him looking smugly self satisfied.

If one doesn’t take into account the tension in his jaw that means he is also not looking forward to his next encounter with Beezlebub.

*

“Think of something! Or…” He wants to threaten long nights reading Shakespeare, the sonnets he knows Crowley hates; but it’s not a book in his other hand, it’s a flaming sword and all he can see in their future is endless fighting, the pale nothingness of the Angelic Triumph and being horribly and irreversibly alone. “or I’ll never talk to you again.”

It should have been a petulant threat, but it’s a plea, his voice cracking with emotion because if Crowley _doesn’t_ think of something then one, more likely both, of them will be dead soon. Truly destroyed, not simply inconveniently discorporated. And he doesn’t want to think of that because the merest thought of having to live without Crowely has been enough to undo Aziraphale for centuries.

*

It’s a long quiet bus ride back to London and all Aziraphale can think about is the retribution promised in Gabriel’s eyes, the malice in Beezlebub’s tone.

The Earth is saved, the humans are safe until they ruin themselves, but he and Crowley have been marked.

He can feel the angelic host watching him, their anger and disappointment burning into him. ‘**Traitor**’, over and over while he sits so very still, careful not to hold Crowely’s hand too tightly and risk waking him.

He remembers Jesus on the cross, begging God to forgive the ones forcing him to suffer for their ignorance and wonders, a little more openly now, if perhaps no one really knows the Ineffable Plan, not even God.

But if even the Great Creator doesn’t know then how could anyone, angel, demon or human hope to ever really understand what’s expected of them?

The answer: ‘They can’t, it’s all just a mess of Free Will’, sits in his brain until he gives his head a good shake to dislodge it.

The bus driver is a little confused to find himself stopping in front of an apartment complex in Mayfair, but the blond chap in the odd professor looking outfit assures him that everything will be fine...and the next thing he knows he’s pulling into his county’s bus garage.

*

Aziraphale carries Crowley up the stairs. He could of course take the elevator, but he wants to hold him, just for a little longer.

He almost expects Lust to be counted among the burns now covering his corporation but it never manifests...and that is comforting.

It was impossible not to lust after Crowley in the early days when everything was so new and he had no idea why his love for the demon was different from his Love Of All Things. It is good to know his love has met and engulfed the lust so completely that there is no sin in his feelings. He can’t help snarking at himself that it’s probably been the case since their argument over holy water in the park those centuries ago.

He raises an eyebrow at the door to the flat and it swings open, the plants trembling as he steps inside. Aziraphale stops, tears misting in his eyes because the entryway looks so very much like Eden.

Back when things were simpler, though perhaps...not quite as fun.

He puts Crowley to bed and strolls around, noting the similarities to heaven.

On purpose perhaps? Or just theatrics?

Knowing Crowley it could go either way. There’s a puddle of Holy Water in a doorway and Aziraphale knows instantly that it’s been used.

There’s a certain sparkle to the blessed liquid after it’s fulfilled its purpose; which simply makes it stronger, more holy.

Aziraphale presses his hand into it, wondering if it will burn.

It doesn’t.

So he cleans it up, placing it back into the tartan thermos, making sure the cap is on tight.

He’ll let Crowley keep his Insurance. That’s what a good policy is for anyway.

Thoughts of insurance lead him back to Agnes’ last prophecy, about faces and fire. Now is no time for sleeping of all things but Crowley has more than earned the rest, stopping time is no small feat, nor is holding together a flaming car by will and imagination alone.

Aziraphale sits on the throne-like chair, staring out the window and lightly drumming his fingers on one golden arm.

The lights of the city twinkle beneath him and the stars shine above the horizon, burning brighter with the wrath of the heavenly host, but in Crowley’s flat it is dim and comfortable.

Faces.

His thoughts chase themselves in circles as the stars wheel through the sky and the Earth dances it’s rotation.

What on earth is it about faces? Humans sometimes could be said to have ‘one of those faces’. He’d heard once upon a time a young lady say ‘on the face of it, looks good’. Face...surface? No. ‘Choose your surface wisely’ sounded like some sort of cooking show line.

Face, features...facade?

It comes to him as the first rays of the sun turn the morning sky a lovely salmon color.

“Oh.”

*

It is a little more difficult to convince Crowely.

“Angel, they’re gonna notice.Your corporation just doesn’t have the flair.”

“Yes my dear, but that’s not the point. _Yours_ does!” Slitted eyes stare at him blankly for a moment and Aziraphale feels his heart melt. “Here, have some tea.” He slides a cup into Crowley’s hand.

“So...what?” The demon takes a sip and instantly looks more awake. “You want me to pretend to be you while still being in my body?”

“No. We need to switch. I will inhabit your corporation and you will inhabit mine.”

Crowley scoffs, leaning back against the headboard, the thick nest of pillows propping him up easily. “Not possible angel, you can’t possess people.”

Aziraphale sits up, sniffing primly. “Yes I can, I did just yesterday.”

“Those were extenuating circumstances.”

“So are these. You know as well as I do that neither of our superiors appreciated our little stunt. Which means there will be penance. Of the lethal kind I suspect.” He takes the teacup as Crowley jerks back upright, keeping it from spilling on the lovely silk sheets.

“Our ‘little stunt’?! It was only preventing the G- the damned apocalypse!”

“Yes well Armageddon armagediddn’t. We must soldier on dear boy.”

“Never say that again, please. It’s as bad as your magic show.”

*

“I feel a right twat.” Crowley is fiddling with the suit jacket and Aziraphale snorts softly. “It’s too many layers Aziraphale, and none of them mesh well.”

“Well my dear, imagine my feelings. I haven’t worn anything this tight since hose went out of fashion.” Aziraphale slides his hands down the leather clinging to the narrow hips, humming softly at the feel of it under the long delicate fingers. He looks up to see blue eyes staring intently at him. “Ah sorry.” He takes his hands away and clears his throat sheepishly, looking around for Crowley’s ever present sunglasses.

“Hose was never _in_ fashion angel. It was just to make calves more appealing. As if they needed the help.” A soft hand runs through blond curls and Crowley makes a face. “And you’re sore. What did you do? Wrestle the damn scooter into submission?”

He puts the glasses on, pleased to adapt Crowley’s trick for his own use, the tinted lenses keep his fear from showing, the lovely voice keeps it’s tone flippant instead of taut. “Something of the sort. Just leave it alone it’ll heal well enough.”

*

Aziraphale realizes, as he’s led down the hallways of Hell that there’s something no one has been told.

God’s love is not absent.

It fills the dark corners with the spiderwebs, settles like dust on the ever shuffling lines of demons and lost souls waiting to turn in paperwork.

It floats with the raucous laughter from rooms away.

God Loves everyone in Hell.

But if that is true...and he cannot deny that it is, he has existed in the light of God for millennia, felt the ever present gentle love even as the oppressive weight of Gabriel’s attention tried to smother it; then why are demons pained by consecrated ground or destroyed by holy water?

The answer comes to him, watching Michael fill the tub with what is to be the means of Crowley’s execution. It’s not the supposed blessing that kills demons. It’s the hate.

The angels that bless the water loathe demons with all the fervor of a scorned mate...and perhaps...that is the love that demons feel the loss of so keenly, the love of their brothers, sisters and lovers. Those that loved them brightly, endlessly...and now hate them with the passion of an exploding star. And since that is the case, he can only surmise that hellfire is that same hatred. Burning with the intensity of the unjustly wronged.

He removes Crowley’s coat to buy time to compose himself. The pants are an afterthought, he loves the way they feel on the body’s skin and he refuses to deprive himself of the enjoyment of seeing Crowley wear them again. The underthings are his own addition, they can soak.

He has always loved to act, and he falls into Crowely’s habits easily, the splayed posture and devil-may-care manner. He has trouble with winking, only managing to scrunch up his nose but the unsettled look on Beezlebub’s face tells him he’s made his point well enough.

“Miracle me a towel, would you Michael?” The archangel does and he takes it, wondering how his own supposed execution is progressing, hoping Crowely hasn’t similarly disrobed. Probably not, it is rather cool in Heaven and Crowley has always been sensitive to the temperature.

He is left to find his own way out, the Dukes and Lords of Hell scattering to keep the rest of the populace from panicking, so it’s no wonder when he finds himself lost, passing an alcove where two hushed voices whisper.

“It wasn’t part of the arrangement.”

“You didn’t like that politician any more than I did.”

“I wanted my son to grow up without any want!”

“And he did. He grew up loved and cherished with friends who stood by, and up, to him when it counted.”

“That’s not fair!” The pain in the first voice is so clear Aziraphale feels his soul ache with empathy.

“You wanted him to have everything you didn’t, and he does. It’s not the end of the world.”

“That’s the _point_! It was SUPPOSED to be the end of the world! And you ruined it! You ruin everything.” Aziraphale presses himself against the wall and tries to silently sneak by. This...is not something he wants to be listening to.

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

“It’s only for another four thousand odd years. Then we can bring everyone back together and discuss how to proceed.”

“I’ll never understand why you picked the year 6666.”

“...because you laughed.”

“What?” He’s almost out of earshot now, he can see the lift back to Earth.

“When we were talking about the humans making calendars and how they might pronounce it...you laughed.” The second voice is soft, yearning. “I didn’t understand how long it would be...how terrible it would feel to lose you all.”

Aziraphale swears he can hear notes of the celestial chorus in that sentence, but the response from the second person is familiar. Like Crowely when he’s embarrassed and wants to make up without dealing with it anymore.

“It’s not forever. Look, I’ve got to get back to work. Take something for your migraine when you get home.”

“Yes dear. Try not to shout at them too much, you’re the eldest after all.”

He practically sprints to the lift and jams the button with his finger, only relaxing when the doors close and he starts floating back up. He puts the conversation to the back of his mind, tucked away for later when he is drunk enough to deal with the idea that Heaven and Hell might not be permanent fixtures, or as estranged as they’d like folk to believe.

All he wants now is to get back to Crowley.

*

It feels good to be back in his own body. As much as he enjoyed the feel of Crowley’s, his demon was right.

He doesn’t quite have the flair to pull it off. Not enough swagger, and confidence. Aziraphale smiles and watches Crowley saunter around the shelves.

“And he brought it all back? That’s a shame.”

“You can’t still be irritated with Wordsworth.” He can see the lovely slitted eyes roll as Crowley hops up to sit on his counter.

“Yes I can. Man was an absolute prat. Fine, go be out in nature but stop being so damned fatalistic about it all.” Aziraphale turns away to put Adam’s new additions where they might be seen, and perhaps thought about, but not bought. “Angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look away from the shelves, enjoying the warm familiarity of simply being able to spend time with Crowley. “Yes dear?”

“Aziraphale.” The demon’s voice is low, tender, and Aziraphale’s head snaps around even as his breath hitches in surprise at the tone. Crowley’s glasses are on the counter, lovely golden eyes boring into him and he knows that if his wings were out they would ruffle and fluff out at the intensity of it all.

“...Crowley.”

One long delicate finger curls up to beckon him closer. Aziraphale takes a slow unneeded breath before padding towards the demon, like a comet being caught by a planet’s gravitational pull. He wants to ask what’s the matter, if he has something on his face, or perhaps if any of that lovely meal at the Ritz has stained his coat; but nothing comes out when he opens his mouth.

He licks suddenly dry lips to try and gather his thoughts only to lose them as Crowley’s hands settle on his hips, pulling him forward, settling him between the demon’s legs. “Crowley-” The rest of his protest is swallowed by eager lips and a warm tongue ravishing his mouth. He sighs into the kiss, feeling himself relax against the lithe body, reaching up to thread his fingers through the demon’s ridiculously soft hair as Crowley pulls back to move his kisses to Aziraphale’s neck.

“Don’t tell me I’m goin’ too fast angel. _Please_…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it my darling.” Aziraphale pants softly, tugging Crowley’s head back up so he can begin his own exploration of the serpent’s mouth. He forgets about everything but feeling Crowley, loving the demon and being loved in turn...until his shirt and vest vanish, leaving him bare before the demon for the first time in over a thousand years.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and he tries to pull away, flushing as the demon doesn’t let go of his hips, instead pulls him closer.

“What the fuck.” Crowley is livid, he can tell. There’s a way anger rumbles in Crowley’s chest, vibrating out into his fingers which dig into Aziraphale’s hips in a way he’s sure he shouldn’t be enjoying as much as he is. He is sure he should be much more ashamed, Crowley can see them now, the lines that brand him as the terrible angel he is.

“Who did this?”

“It’s not important-!” He gasps as there are teeth at his throat and a pressure that is pleasurable and just painful enough to make his knees weak.

“No angel, you tell me who did this.” The long deft fingers trace each letter as Crowley steals his hesitation kiss by kiss. “Tell me.”

He is helpless to resist the temptation to place his heart and faith completely in Crowley. “I told you...reprimands.”

He doesn’t want to think about it, and almost miraculously he doesn’t have to as Crowley is kissing him again, deep enough to steal the breath neither of them need; their non corporeal forms brushing and merging slowly, atom by atom. Aziraphale’s wings release, he can’t help it as he is filled with love. Love that burns in the way a good stretch does, that makes his skin tingle like a Cello solo.

“Crowley...oh yes Crowley!”

“That’s right Aziraphale, you’re so lovely...so sweet…” There’s a thud but before the angel can try to peer around the demon to see what fell; wings the color of Crowley’s favorite sheets wrap around him, the feathers a teasing torture against his corporation. “Mine now. No one’ll touch you again, my word on it angel.”


End file.
